


Hard a' Lee

by storylinecontinuum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Napoleonic Wars, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storylinecontinuum/pseuds/storylinecontinuum
Summary: An aspiring officer in His Britannic Majesty’s navy, Arthur was a man used to order and success. But though he cursed the times providence took the helm in his life, there is occasionally merit in being sent off course by the storm._________Human AU with naval officer Arthur spanning the years before and during the Napoleonic wars.
Relationships: America & Canada & England (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia), Canada & England (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was known as Admiral Kirkland AU on tumblr but now that I have a few main plot lines in mind I figured it was time to start posting it here.

_**September, 1782** _

The mists were gone today as well.

Arthur listened to the sounds of pots and pans clanking together as he occupied his usual perch. It would have been a fine day to set sail. Instead he was firmly rooted to the dingy little log he’d chosen as his brooding post in this godforsaken backwater place.

The half-empty bowl of porridge he’d been apathetically handed this morning lay cold at his feet, the grass around it dotted with dew and looking crisp under a thin, barely there layer of frost. A few feet away his hostess was going about her business, ignoring him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And yet it shouldn’t have been, Arthur thought uneasily.

He had barged onto her property after all, demanding (most outrageously) to be billeted and even now his red coat was boldly on display for the whole world to see. But she didn’t seem to care. Neither about him, nor his coat.

Even back then as he’d faced her - bloody, ragged and looking positively barbaric in all likelihood, she’d just paused in doing her washing and run her eyes over his form.

“There’s a room upstairs.” Was all she’d said before going back to scrubbing her sheets.

He’d been rightfully stunned to say the least. Later on, some wry masochistic part of him with a morbid sense of humor had found it all very anticlimactic. Requesting to be quartered on American land at this point of the war was tantamount to asking to be murdered. Probably brutally and in a fine dress of tar and feathers.

But his feverish mind had been beyond considering such risks as he’d stepped off his horse, hungry and worn and near delirious from the continuous defeats life had piled onto him in recent times, one after the other.

He had more or less recovered his bearing since then. Even if the storm inside him broiled and festered as angry and sullen as it had been nonstop for the past couple of months. Its gales were as frigid as the Channel squalls during winter and he felt numb all over from it.

Arthur, at thirty, was by and large a cold man. But these days his heart felt like a stone.

There was no other explanation for why he wasn’t by Mary’s side this very moment.

His fingers clenched in a fist and ground together where he held them close to his jaw. The skin there was permeated with the stench of soil and gunpowder residue and he felt disgusted with himself for a moment. But there was a stronger disgust deep underneath it all.

He was supposed to have stayed here for just one night. It had taken him two days to get to this place from Fort Henry – miraculously unnoticed – and by the time he’d found the solitary cottage he’d been well aware he would have to stop there for a rest. One night was all he’d needed – to recover his strength and rush straight back to Mary’s villa, just half a day’s ride away.

And yet deep down he knew what he was going to find there. And he wasn’t ready for it.

That’s how he found himself in his current position – sat on the very same log, brooding and scowling just as he’d done every morning for the past four days. _Four_ days he’d been here. While his wife withered away in a forgotten villa in the Virginian wilderness.

A ragged sigh escaped his throat and he glared at the frosted ground.

At least one part of his endeavors had met with success: the woman he’d cornered into sheltering him was alone in her cottage, no man in sight to create any difficulties unless you counted the two infant sons she was looking after.

Arthur still couldn’t wrap his head around her behavior. She’d taken his arrival in stride, continuing her daily business, cooking and giving him meals (though doing so with extreme apathy) and providing fodder for his horse as though he weren’t a hostile stranger. She’d even yielded to the request that she wash his clothes – though they did complement his madder coat, breeches stained with ally Native American blood weren’t exactly respectable attire.

The thought dragged his mind in a new direction and he became distracted again, gladly indulging in ruminations that had nothing to do with Mary. There was a fort and a failed siege to consider, along with all the niggling details around them that could keep him busy throughout the whole day. His respite was cut short however when a shrill noise rent the air.

Arthur jumped where he sat, his soldier’s instinct taking over in a flash, and whipped around to find the source of the disturbance.

The source in question was hardly anything that warranted his response though. Lying on the rickety remains of a chair nearby, positioned to absorb the rays of the feeble September sun, one of the woman’s infants was wailing up a storm as it presumably called for its mother. Arthur’s brows scrunched in annoyance. The noise was piercing straight through his skull and down to the inchoate headache that dwelled there.

As though responding to his irritation, the child wailed louder still, causing his fist to curl impossibly tight until he slammed it against his thigh and craned his neck toward the house.

“Oh bloody hell woman, can you not keep these children quiet??”

The inertia of his anger had carried him up on his feet. Meanwhile the child continued its desperate call for its mother who finally shuffled out of the house and awarded Arthur with a cursory glance. He watched irascibly as she stopped next to the bundled child, her grimy dress swaying around her ankles.

She made no move to pick the boy up.

The odd behavior caused some of Arthur’s indignation to shrivel and be replaced with that same unease as earlier.

“Do they need something?” He asked, trying his best to put anger into his voice.

“Food.” She answered vapidly.

“Well then. Give it to them.”

Her pale blue eyes shifted from the now whimpering child and she fixed them on the soldier in front of her. His red coat reflected in lilac in them, dull and watered down.

“What’s the point?” She asked, sending a shiver rushing down his spine. Her eyes swiveled soullessly back to the infant. “Their father died in the war.”

The words caused some ugly emotion to curl the corners of her mouth and she looked almost incandescent with it in that moment.

“That damned _cursed_ war. They’re not going to survive without a father to provide for them. So what’s the point.”

That said, she leaned forward to flick the corner of the blanket over the child’s face and marched wordlessly back into the house.

Arthur stood staring after her, petrified.

For the first time in ages he didn’t feel like he was carrying a stone inside his breast. Liquid horror was spreading through his veins instead as he stared at where the child’s face was supposed to be, covered by the blanket that muffled its renewed cries.

It clogged his throat with revulsion.

Stumbling back and collapsing onto the log, he felt his pulse race under his skin. It wasn’t just the sight of what he had witnessed just now. The sudden awareness of so many horrors twisted and trashed around his mind, the single congregated thought of them responsible for the he was experiencing now.

Some destitute colonial farmer had left his family and gone and gotten himself killed – perhaps inevitably – in that ridiculous mess of a war, effectively abandoning his children to starvation. And even if that fate weren’t impossible to avoid, the wife seemed to have given up on raising two infants without a father.

Arthur raised his shaking hands and cupped them over his mouth. He sat like that for some time while the early morning haze melted into a dreary midday. Then suddenly he shot back up to his feet, full of newfound determination.

Storming back into the house he headed straight for the small room he occupied in the attic. In less than an hour his meager possessions were packed and his horse saddled and when the woman came round the cottage with dirt and weeds clinging to her skirt she stopped to stare at him and the animal, both looking ready to depart.

Upon meeting her gaze Arthur turned from checking the tautness of the reins and walked briskly in her direction. His sword dangled at his side and for the first time since he’d been there he saw intimidation gleam behind her eyes. It gave him a flash of savage satisfaction.

He stopped before her, towering in his superior height. Slowly, without taking his eyes off hers, he took the plow she’d been using from her hands and uttered in a clear deliberate voice.

“Feed. The children.”

_____________________________

The clatter of horse hooves was nearly drowned out by the pattering rain but the staff, awake and alert, had caught onto it and tumbled out into the sopping night to meet their employer.

The red of Lord Kirkland’s coat was stubborn enough to sustain visibility even in the quickly growing darkness and they watched him dismount, onto the muddy ground. Rainwater cascaded off of him in torrents and soaked his already ruined stockings.

He had already cast a look over their assembled faces as he’d ridden through the villa’s gates. They’d told him everything he needed to know.

And yet his hands were sure as he worked to detach his luggage and musket from the saddle.

“Sir,” The midwife who was at the front of the group stepped forward to peer into his face. Her eyes were pinched with some unidentified emotion.

Arthur brushed aside the sentiment and simply asked in a brusque tone.

“Where is the wet nurse?”

The group exchanged puzzled glances before the midwife spoke up again.

“She just left this afternoon sir.”

There was a question attached to the end of her tone and Arthur opened his mouth to address it but his words were cut short as one of the maids gave a startled cry.

Several heads snapped to her in tandem. The maid’s eyes were glued to one of the twin bundles fixed to the side of the horse’s saddle. It was moving.

The next moment everyone watched in gawking fascination as Lord Kirkland gingerly raised the cover of the bundle to reveal a tiny figure inside. A tiny figure that promptly started fussing. At the sound of the baby’s whimpers, the other bundle became restless as well much to the staff’s shock.

Lord Kirkland turned back to the midwife in front of him.

“Bring her back immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. The siege of Fort Henry took place from September 11 to 13, 1782 and saw 50 British officers and Loyalists along with a force of around 300 Native Americans pitted against some 40 defenders. It failed when the former were unable to achieve their goal before American reinforcements arrived. The siege is considered to be the last battle of the Revolutionary War.
> 
> 2\. There is reference to the Quartering Act of 1765 which required American colonials to provide housing and food to British soldiers. It was one of the major sources of tension that eventually lead to the outbreak of the war.
> 
> 3\. Another reference is to the act of tarring and feathering - a punishment where the victim is stripped and covered in (sometimes hot) tar and feathers. It’s commonly associated with Patriots as it was used on Loyalists on several occasions.
> 
> 4\. Until 1873 regular British soldiers’ red coats differed in shade from those of officers. The coats of the former were dyed with the cheaper madder dye making them a duller, darker red than the scarlet of officers’ coats as those were dyed with the more expensive cochineal.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of old wood battled quietly with the scent of a lit fire that illuminated the room in a patchwork or browns and oranges. Heavy as the air was, the combination was intrinsically comforting and the two pacing figures gently rocking their full arms completed the image.

There were other smells drifting in the air as well as the two infants had just been fed and were happily being lulled to sleep, one twin cradled in the wet nurse’s hold and the other in the midwife’s. Outside the rain droned on, enclosing the cozy space of the villa in a kind of bubble.

Yet despite that every soul there was aware of the tenebrous presence in the far corner of the room that occasionally earned itself a look of sympathy. There, a bed was pushed against the wall, a white sheet drawn respectfully over its single occupant. Lord Kirkland sat in a chair next to it with his back to the room, keeping vigil over the body of his wife.

Nobody dared disturb him.

He had lost a wife along with the child she’d been carrying. Both in the span of one day which he couldn’t be present for. Although whether his presence would have been a consolation to his grief or an exacerbation of it, it was hard to muster the stomach to contemplate.

Arthur, for his part, ignored the silent expressions of pity. Although it was hard to tell it was his wife laid prostrate under the sheet, he was very lucidly aware of it. This was Mary, _had been_ Mary, to whom he hadn’t been able to dedicate himself even in the final moments of her life.

It was funny, almost. How he gave her his attention more wholeheartedly now than when she was alive. Though he knew it would have been no different had their positions been reversed.

The two of them had never been much enamored with each other. It wasn’t what one would call a loveless marriage per se. It was simply a reality both of them had accepted with good grace and detached professionalism.

Arthur had never intended to marry. He’d known from very early on that his life would be wholly devoted to the navy, as any navy man could expect it to be. But he was still gentry. And marriage nothing short of a duty for him.

Thankfully Mary had been just as aloof about the idea and that one single thing they had in common had helped them come to an acceptable mutually-beneficial agreement. They had said their vows, satisfying their respective families, and each had gone their own way – Arthur throwing himself heart and soul into his career and Mary into her duties as mistress of their property.

It had been an agreeable arrangement if nothing else.

But of course, nothing could ever be so simple.

Mary had always been a gloomy and sickly individual. In her eyes her life, Arthur suspected from the little time he’d spent with her, was tolerable but nothing more. She’d been unhappy – she’d been so even before the marriage – and Arthur could only allay how uncomfortable he felt about it by assuring himself he wasn’t the reason behind her unhappiness.

Eventually, however, he’d come home one day to find her frantic. She’d grown tired, it seemed, of life in England and its dreary weather and she’d begged Arthur that they move to live with her father who was the secretary of some official in the colonies. As unexpected as the request had been, Arthur had had no reason to refuse. He’d known that he was a deficient husband, even if Mary had never wanted one in the first place, and he couldn’t find any respectable reason to deny her something that had the potential of making her happy.

So he’d agreed to move to the colonies. After all it didn’t matter to him where he made his landing whenever the navy gave him his brief obligatory furlough. Alas, even then he’d found Mary no happier in America than she’d been before that in England.

And then war.

Now, there was very little means for Arthur to fully express the extent of his scorn for the war, or rather their enemies. He had been grateful at the time, when Mary’s father (the man’s employer being a Loyalist) had had the good judgement to take himself and his daughter out of harm’s way by relocating to their little known property in the Virginian woodland.

It had meant one less thing to worry about for Arthur. Mental exertion that was better directed at terrorizing enemy ships.

And yet God seemed to have chosen the side of the Yanks for whatever inscrutable reason. To make matters worse, Mary’s deteriorating health had seen no improvement after the confirmation of her pregnancy. Barring Arthur’s successful career that the war had propelled with near condemnable efficiency, his life had seemed to be galloping toward disaster on every other front and it had all culminated (or so he’d thought) when that misfortune had caught up with him at sea.

The battle of the Mona Passage had been one of the more satisfying victories of the Royal Navy. All five French ships captured for the negligible price of some twenty British casualties. As fate would have it however, Arthur’s chance of indulging in the triumph had been dampened when he’d received a bad head wound at the very end of the engagement.

The resulting concussion had left him bedridden while his crew had been tasked – an order he’d curse till the end of his days – with accompanying one of the captured French frigates with her prisoners and prize crew to a harbor in Nova Scotia as she’d been too damaged to make the journey to England.

Seeing as Arthur had been incapacitated, the brunt of that responsibility had fallen on his first lieutenant. And what a spectacular mess that man had made of it.

Under the cover of night, the French prisoners had managed to rise against their jailers and recapture their ship. As far as tragedies went, that had been no dire one. But the fact that the prisoners had then managed to capture Arthur’s own ship without anyone being the wiser for it was a calamity that Arthur would never live down.

He still remembered the confusing and humiliating moment of waking up in a ship that had once been under his command and being informed that he was to be a prisoner of the rebel army. He would never forget the potency of his rage at the time. A rage that had made him feel less than human and he still observed the ramifications of, occasionally.

They had been taken to an American prison town. Arthur had been treated courteously while his head wound had healed. He’d been treated courteously even after that which his British pride had left him feeling particularly resentful about. At one point he’d come across his first lieutenant and he’d nearly strangled the unfortunate man then and there but the American guards had managed to restrain him, even finding the whole incident amusing which had only served to compound his wretchedness.

That was the shameful manner in which he’d spent his days. Plagued by thoughts of his ship, his freedom, his reputation and his very pregnant wife. Four months he had endured it. Until one day he’d been called to the makeshift barracks to find a kindly American officer who’d greeted him with a rueful smile and invited him to sit down.

The man had then proceeded to tell him, in the most delicate way possible, that they had received news of his wife, that her condition was dire and that because of that they had agreed to release him on parole.

“The war is probably going to come to an end soon anyways.” The man had added gently. “I hear they’ve already gone ahead with the peace talks in Paris.”

Arthur’s jaw had ached as he’d clenched it.

He’d been given a horse and sent away.

Upon arriving at the villa he’d been presented with the next of fate’s sick jokes. Not only was it uncertain whether his wife would live but his unborn child’s survival was also questionable. There was nothing they could do but wait, the doctor had said.

So Arthur had waited. For once in his life he had sat on his arse and bloody waited instead of doing something, _anything_ , like all his instincts screamed at him to do and still he had reaped no reward for it. Mary had only spiraled further out of his reach.

Hence when Captain Pratt and his loyalist militia had stumbled across him there, in the middle of the woods, and told him that they were on their way to lay siege to Fort Henry he had wasted no time in making his decision.

They’d dug up an extra uniform coat for him and before the last rays of the day had died, he’d been riding by the Captain’s side. There was dishonor, naturally, in violating his parole but he hadn’t been the first and he wouldn’t be the last. The face of the kindly American officer who had put his trust in him hadn’t crossed his mind for a second.

The truth was that by the time he’d put his foot in the stirrup under the collected anxious looks of the staff and the women arranged for Mary’s due date, he’d already been more or less aware of what he would encounter when he came back. It had been plain to see even without the doctor portending it.

The siege had failed. American reinforcements had arrived. Arthur had headed back home.

And now he was staring at the final nail of the coffin after months of fate dangling its hammer over it. It was over. It was time to bid Mary goodbye and open the first page of the new book before him.

The chair’s legs scraped quietly across the floor as he got to his feet. He was aware of how closely everyone was watching him as his eyes fell on the wet nurse who was still rocking one of the babies. They’d been lucky to get her back on time. The old gardener had made a mad dash on Arthur’s horse and had been able to fetch her within hours of Arthur’s arrival.

Arthur walked over to the baby in her arms and ran his finger over its healthy cheek. Thankfully Virginia’s September months weren’t too harsh in their weather. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the wet nurse smile at him.

“Have ye chosen names for them yet sir?” The midwife’s raspy voice came from behind. Arthur continued to stroke the baby’s cheek for a moment before pursing his lips in thought.

“We planned to name him after a king.” He said quietly. “If it was a boy.”

An expectant silence met his words.

“Alfred” he said finally and a smile bloomed across his face. A palpable change swept the room at the sight of it and like a collective sigh of relief it planted the seeds of a tentative optimism, one such as the villa hadn’t seen in a long while.

“Alfred. That’s a good name.” The midwife agreed and in the corner the gardener nodded his own approval around the simmering pipe in his mouth. All loyalists, the bunch of them.

“What about the other one?”

Arthur gave Alfred’s cheek a few final strokes before turning and walking over to the other twin. His contemplation lasted longer this time but his answer was just as sure.

“Matthew.” He said and the same warm smile took over his features.

The midwife’s brows climbed her wrinkled forehead.

“God’s gift.” She observed wisely.

“That’s what they are.” Arthur murmured through his smile.

The pleasant air of the moment lasted for a good few minutes in which everyone seemed to just bask in the domestic bliss of it. The babies were fed, calm and healthy and a couple of mouths quirked in amusement as they wiggled harmlessly in their sleep.

Then suddenly Arthur’s expression closed off and he pulled away to march back to his wife’s bedside. He grabbed the chair there by the back and dragged it from the bed, sweeping the room with a glance to make sure every drop of attention was on him before sitting down and leaning forward.

“Now I want you to listen to me,” He said gravely, assuming authority with the graceful ease of someone born for it.

“As far as anyone is concerned, Alfred and Matthew are mine and Mary’s sons. Everything that occurred from the day I left to the moment I returned is to be confined to this room. _Nobody_ is to know of the children’s true parentage… Mary died in labor but our sons survived and you will all pledge to have born witness to that.”

That being said, the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders and he leaned back into the chair.

“I will of course imburse each of you accordingly for your silence. You may be sure of that. And you may also be sure,” he hurried to add. “That the children weren’t taken from their home by immoral means.”

The mention of money and the twins swiftly recalled the feeling of chilled gold biting into his palm before it was transferred into the waiting hands of the boys’ mother. Arthur shook his head and scowled at the memory. It had been the right thing to do.

And now that the boys were baptized and carried the Kirkland name, there was no question where they rightfully belonged. All he needed to make sure of was the staff’s and maids’ compliance and that was given readily enough.

It was all done and settled.

_____________________________

The morning of their departure looked promising and Arthur hurried to strap the last of their luggage to the horses. There was little chance of them missing their ship but he wanted to take full advantage of the year’s final good weather so that the twins could travel under the afternoon sun.

Most of the preparations were complete and he watched as the gardener pulled the last heavy box from inside and set it down on the grass. Much of the luggage was Mary’s family’s possessions and that would go to its proper owners now that it wasn’t needed here.

Mary’s father had passed away earlier the previous year and some of the possessions in those chests were his. Arthur didn’t have to worry about them as his own destination was the Port of Philadelphia from where a ship would take him, his sons and a few willing attendants back home to Britain. All with the benevolent approval of the newly established American government.

A final forceful tug was applied to the strapping and Arthur turned back to the house to check on the other passengers’ progress. As he did so, however, the faint sounds of horse hooves reached his ears and he swiveled back in the direction of the noise, establishing its source mere seconds later.

A group of riders slowed to a trot over the gravel path and Arthur noted the array of dark blue uniforms with dismay. The officer at the front – obvious by his less shabby coat – sent him a smarmy look as his frill encased hand climbed to his hat in a salute. Arthur itched to repay it with a handful of mud turned faceful.

The man stopped his horse uncomfortably close, obviously aiming to cow Arthur, and smiled his unfriendly smile again.

“Lord Kirkland,” He fawned. “I’m glad to see this morning finds you well. I see you’re getting ready to depart?”

“Yes.” Arthur replied curtly. “We will be off your hands very soon as I’m sure you’ll be happy to learn.”

The smirk he received in response suggested anything but happiness unless the officer drew it from the entertainment this farce of a polite talk supplied.

“We almost missed you today, _captain_. It was the townspeople who told us your wife’s father had moved them here. We weren’t aware of that.”

The sickly sweet accusation was clearly meant to be noticed and Arthur noticed it alright. Along with the flippant way his rank was thrown in there.

“He deemed it safer from the war.” He said plainly.

“Indeed.” The captain – Arthur surmised by his gold epaulette – looked away from him then to sweep his gaze over the small plot of ground. Unfortunately for Arthur it quickly found its target and a gleam of savage delight flashed behind it.

He jerked his chin and addressed Arthur again.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Arthur’s shoulders stiffened. He was suddenly keenly aware of the fresh smell of dirt that was permeating the air around the villa and had been for a while now. It was Mary’s modest grave that emitted it. And it was Mary’s grave that the captain had pointed to. Arthur’s resolve turned to steel as he elected not to deign him with a response.

There were good reasons not to agitate the man. For one there was the madder coat stuffed at the bottom of his luggage, safely out of sight for now but feeling like it was burning a hole through Arthur’s palm where he rested it over its approximate location.

He couldn’t give this man any excuse to discover that incriminating piece of evidence.

“Such an unfortunate turn of events.” The other ploughed on, luckily none the wiser. “First your father-in-law, then your wife. It must have been terrible for you.”

As expected none of the sentiments expressed in that speech reflected in the captain’s tone and even his own men seemed to fidget uncomfortably behind him, disturbed by the display. They had probably experienced plenty of loss in the past couple of years and this cavalier treatment of it didn’t seem to sit well with them.

Arthur himself was beyond the point of being enraged. But he stood resolutely still, bolstered by the knowledge of what hinged on his composure. There was the well-being of his family to consider now and speaking of which, there were the wet nurse and the midwife, coming from inside the house with the swaddled twins cradled in their arms.

Both women startled and stopped in their tracks when they saw the group of mounted soldiers. But Arthur’s mind was already running ahead and a smirk pulled at his mouth as he raised his head to look at the captain above him.

“There is indeed loss captain.” He said airily. “But there is also gain.”

The delight of seeing the officer’s brows scrunch together was worth some of the torture he’d just been subject to.

“Twins?” The man asked tersely.

“Boys.” Arthur grinned.

Another sour expression graced the captain’s face.

“I’m sure they’ll make fine heirs to your line.”

“British continuity is a virile thing.” Arthur quipped and was able to pinpoint the exact moment the captain decided this conversation was too irritating to continue. The man huffed scornfully and proceeded to inform Arthur that they would be accompanying him on his journey to Philadelphia but Arthur was too pleased with himself to be bothered by it.

As he mounted his horse he watched in his peripheral vision as the gardener helped the women climb into the stagecoach arranged for them.

They were going to be fine, he thought then, him and his boys.

They were going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Adoption wasn’t recognized legally in the US until 1851 and England passed its first adoption legislation as late as 1926. Until then the ‘adoption’ of children had many unofficial forms such as indentured servitude or raising the orphaned children of relatives. Usually however it would be conducted in secret and involved factors such as poverty, avoiding stigma or simply the profit of child labor. The US was actually the first country to introduce adoption legislation and some believe that was due to the nations’ traditions of democracy and immigration.  
> In Arthur’s case with him being gentry and Alfred and Matthew being born to “traitor” parents, he has little choice in how to integrate them into his family.
> 
> 2\. The Battle of the Mona Passage took place on the 19th of April 1782. It saw five French vessels facing ten British ships of the line and was unsurprisingly a British victory. Four of the French ships were captured and taken back to England, two of them being 64-gun ships of the line. The final fifth ship – a frigate – was also captured but managed to escape and this is the ship I’ve taken the liberty to play around with.
> 
> 3\. Prisoners in the War of Independence were treated differently by either side. The British denied continental army soldiers the status of prisoners of war as they were considered traitors and captured men faced neglect and very poor conditions.
> 
> Meanwhile Washington insisted on adhering to the laws of war and there were punishments in place for mistreating prisoners. Of course in reality instances of cruelty and poor conditions abounded. The prisoners themselves were often kept in local towns (hence prison towns), which simply meant that they were the responsibility of local officials.
> 
> Parole for officers was also a common practice though many officers used their granted freedom as a stepping stone to escape.
> 
> 4\. King Alfred was a 9th century Anglo-Saxon king. He never adopted the title King of England as England wasn’t a unified entity at the time though most chronicles agree that the Anglo-Saxon people recognized his authority. He’s the only king in English history to be called ‘the Great’ and is known for having fended off Viking invaders. (I think we can all now appreciate the irony of King Arthur being a Romanized Celt who fought off Anglo-Saxon invaders.)
> 
> 5\. Matthew’s name does indeed mean a gift from God. More specifically the name has Hebrew origins and refers to the Hebrew God.


	3. Chapter 3

The creaking of the ship still scared her even after days at sea. It was a hulking, noisy thing - the vessel they’d got on to, and never in her life had she imagined that ships were so enormous up close, their pillars of sails seeming to reach for the heavens themselves. On top of that Lord Kirkland had remarked that their transport was of the more modest ones. She marveled to think what the larger beasts of war looked like. From afar, lined up in the harbor, all ships seemed roughly the same. But what did she know, this being her first time aboard one.

The floor under her gave another lurch, hailed by a chorus of creaking, and her heart skipped a beat as she steadied herself. ‘A deck,’ she heard Lord Kirkland’s voice in her head correct her with mirth. ‘Not a floor.’

How easy for him to jest, she thought, when he didn’t even twitch during the sea’s rowdiest tantrums. Those moments scared the wits out of her. For him, though, any inclement weather seemed to be an opportunity to bare his teeth at the winds and grin as the rain lashed his face. It was a side of him she’d never seen before.

The man had undergone a fascinating transformation the moment they’d stepped on deck. At first she’d attributed it to the fact that they’d shucked their irksome convoy but as the days had piled up, she’d caught him more and more often looking at the ship with affection rivaling that he graced his children with.

It was a far cry from the irascible temper she’d come to know on land. So much so that she wondered if there was anything in between or just the sullen man of the land and the teasing man of the sea.

Yet as refreshing as this new side of him was, it still peeked timidly from behind the cloud of worries that stuck to him like a crown. Every time she made the journey from the women’s section of the lower deck to his allotted quarters, she found him scowling as he rocked one of the twins, the crease between his brows deep and telling.

And unsurprisingly this is what she found now as she nudged the door to his quarters open. 

It was Matthew cradled in his arms this time. She could tell by the embroidery on the blanket the babe was swaddled in – something one of the maids had added during their journey to Philadelphia to help differ the startlingly identical boys. The twin slept peacefully in his father’s arms as the man cooed at him and stroked his cheek. The sight pulled at her heartstrings. She hadn’t a husband of her own but she knew that men weren’t expected to be this involved in the raising of infant children.

“Sir,” She called to get his attention, feeling a twinge of regret at interrupting. “May I speak to you?”

He raised his head to look at her and his eyes seemed to clear a bit.

“Yes, of course.” He said. “Is something the matter?”

She felt a blush creep up her neck. As imposing and strict as he usually seemed, in moments like these she found it a challenge to be scared of him.

“There’s nothing amiss sir, not really.” She said. “But I was wondering if I could talk to you about my journey back home. You said you’d find the earliest ship back to the colonies,” she saw him wince. “and… cover the costs.” She finished a bit more uncertainly.

The crease between his brows deepened and for a moment she feared she’d overestimated his generosity. According to his servants, Lord Kirkland was never one to save gold on his employees but perhaps recent events had changed his disposition?

“Actually,” he said after a while. “I was hoping to employ your services for a bit longer than we initially agreed.”

She gave him a puzzled look that prompted him to continue.

“You see, I haven’t been able to arrange for another wet nurse and I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to find one once we arrive. Moreover, I’ve heard there’s a chance the boys will reject her if the change is too abrupt or they feel stressed by it.”

There was a note of urgency to his words and she bit her lip, trying to remain unaffected.

“I don’t know sir…”

“I will provide you with everything, of course.” He interrupted. “You needn’t worry about food or shelter or any other expenses.”

It was becoming very hard to ignore the insistence in his voice.

Even so. He was asking something very difficult of her.

“I-”

A loud wail cut her off then and both she and Lord Kirkland started.

“Oh bollocks,” She heard him curse and watched as he hurried over to the single cot in the cabin where Alfred’s crying was climbing in pitch. Matthew, already stirred by his brother’s fussing, was gingerly set down before his father moved to pick up the other twin. After checking the blankets and patting the child’s tiny back, the man frowned, clearly at a loss but wanting to solve the problem.

It put a smile on her lips. To a woman it was all rather amusing. But at the same time she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him. The way he cared for his children – children that weren’t his by blood but he loved anyways – struck her as painfully endearing.

It was like a floodgate had been opened. One by one, doubts began to march into her mind. Were it all that urgent that she returned back home? Now that she stopped to think, there was very little tethering her to it. Her family of five sisters and two brothers would be better off were she somewhere far but provided for, even if they would miss her.

And it was difficult to just leave this man. She watched him now, pacing around the room with that frown of his, rocking the child in his arms back and forth, looking harried but determined. She wasn’t heartless. She knew he slept every night with an arm slung over the two boys so that the ship wouldn’t jostle them as it lurched and rolled. She knew that he barely left their side even though he had no inkling how to care for them the way a woman could.

He looked old at that moment. Unshaven as he was and haggard in his rumpled coat, as red as the blood on his wife’s-… She shook her head.

Her mind was made up.

Lord Kirkland was still trying to calm a crying and wriggling Alfred when she gently put a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s probably hungry, sir,” She smiled. “If you let me, I can take care of it.”

His green eyes found hers again before his features twisted into a comical expression.

“Didn’t he eat recently?”

“He did,” she nodded. “But Alfred here is a big eater.”

This seemed to throw the man into another fit.

“But if he’s hungry and Matthew isn’t, doesn’t that mean there’s something wrong with Matthew?” He asked, worry lacing his voice. It was all too much and elicited a chuckle from her.

“Leave that to me sir.” She said as she moved to take the child from him.

“Oh and sir? I think I’ll be accepting your offer for employment after all.”

He thanked her then. Profusely, albeit in that stiff and polite manner of his. In the end she managed to shoo him away so she could feed the fussing twin. And even then he didn’t go above deck, where the wind was crisp and the sun generous for this time of year. Instead he opted to coddle Matthew back to sleep, speaking softly to the boy until the small gurgles of delight died down into quiet puffs of breath.

Lord Kirkland was a weak man. But only in one aspect. And in a way all men should be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No text in this chapter but I have some artwork for this story that I plan to post in between chapters. Hope you enjoy!

**Captain Kirkland ca.1780**


	5. Chapter 5

“She’s a cripple.”

Arthur lowered the glass and stared across the grey expanse of sea that stood between them and the cluster of masts bobbing above the horizon.

Behind him, the lookout pressed himself as far away from his esteemed captain as the narrow space of the masthead allowed. A few minutes ago that same lookout had caused quite a stir on the quarterdeck:

‘A frigate and a strange unidentified vessel’ he’d reported, causing the men below to exchange bewildered looks while the officer of the watch hurled profanities at the sailor apparently unable to use his eyes.

Arthur, though, had hesitated. His first lieutenant had suggested they send a Midshipman up there but the captain had brushed him off with a wave of his hand. After all, he had a perfectly functioning pair of eyes. So he’d thrust his hat into the man’s hands and climbed the ratlines himself, leaving his officers staring after him in embarrassment. And he’d been right to do so.

“Dismasted fore and aft. Probably lost her attackers under the cover of night,” Arthur muttered and the seaman behind him nodded raptly. Most captains didn’t bother enlightening the hands but Arthur believed it encouraged them to at least try and think like officers and not expect their officers to think for them.

He handed the man back his glass and made his way down. A fresh wind whistled all around him but he took no notice of it as his mind whirred with calculations. By the time his feet touched the deck, their course of action had already taken shape.

“Mr Watts,” he called, “please adjust the ship’s course two points to starboard. Gentlemen, we’re about to close in on those ships. I want us sailing under the least amount of sails possible. Now get the men to work.”

His lieutenants dawdled, waiting for further clarification but Arthur turned his back to them to look out over the bulwarks. If his hands got detailed explanations, his officers got none of that - he expected them to use what they lugged around under their hats.

An awkward cough and a scuffling of boots later the deck was awash with the sounds of officers bellowing orders and bare feet clattering to their stations. Meanwhile Arthur took his time examining the sea, slate-gray and dull in the bleak dawn. The fresh wind ruffling its surface was fortunate for their destination but even more fortunate was the fact that he’d decided to comb the coast of France on the way home for any foolhardy blockade-runners.

Of course, there was a chance the two frigates were friendly but even then he could offer assistance in towing the cripple away from France’s grubby hands. Hull down as they were, however, they had to be approached with caution. Arthur had noted how their position was such that the oncoming light of dawn betrayed every one of the two frigates’ spars while the Providence herself sailed with the backdrop of relative darkness at her stern. Were she to creep in close enough before their enemies detected her, it could go a long way in catching them unawares.

Arthur curled his fingers around the railing in anticipation. There was a tremendous din as the hands pulled on clewlines and buntlines, hauling in sails and making their masts as difficult to spot as possible.

Arthur cherished the briny sea air as he took a deep breath.

“All hands, clear for action!” He bellowed, sending the crew into another flurry of activity. He would send them to breakfast before giving the order to beat to quarters but he could always rethink that decision if he saw any sloppiness now.

“They’re definitely Frenchmen, sir.” Graham, Arthur’s first lieutenant said next to him.

Arthur took the glass that was offered to him.

“So it seems,” he agreed as he examined the two vessels’ elegantly sloped bows. They would make a fine addition to His Majesty’s navy, he decided with a smirk.

And there it was. One of the enemy ships, the undamaged one, showed signs of stirring.

“Do you think she’ll abandon her companion, sir?” Graham asked, trepidation clear in his voice.

Arthur huffed.

“You can expect anything from these rebellious dogs.”

It was true, he told himself, the French navy had shucked all of its honor once deprived of its royalist officers, many of whom now twiddled their thumbs as emigres in Britain. Arthur raised the glass to his eye again. Even if one frigate made an escape, the cripple would be easy pickings. A lee shore at her back and yawing precariously with a mainmast alone, she was as good as helpless.

However, much to Arthur’s delight, a few minutes later found her sister making up her mind.

Her backlit sails shuddered as she turned into the wind and pointed her bow at the far superior ship of the line in some kind of last act of defiance. The smile on Arthur’s face turned predatory. There were two prizes in the offing now, he could smell it, and if he played his cards right he may well wring out another advantage.

“Mr Graham, I want us under full sail,” he said, leaving it to his first lieutenant to give the necessary orders. The order to beat to quarters he gave personally and proceeded to amuse himself with the thought of the dread accumulating on the French ships. All their glasses would be trained on the British two-decker dashing before the wind and bearing down on them. He could see their gun ports opening now, both frigates having positioned themselves to fire their broadsides. _Too soon_ , Arthur noted with satisfaction. It looked like his intuition hadn’t misled him.

What followed was the usual calm before the storm. Arthur counted the seconds as he took stock of the Providence’s deck: the gun crews stationed around their guns; the gun captains, cool and collected as they hovered over the breeches; the lieutenants in charge of the batteries on their last rounds to make sure everything was in order.

Arthur nodded in satisfaction. His crew was a machine oiled to perfection.

But even if their enemies didn’t know that, the sight of a British man of war would suffice to make them anxious. Anxious enough to test the nerves of their officers and gun crews. Arthur was counting on it and he strained his ears while he gauged the dwindling distance between them. The seconds stretched on in silence.

Then it happened. A faint roar rumbled up over the deck and Arthur looked up just in time to see the cloud of smoke swirl about the Frenchmen’s masts before being carried away by the wind. A moment later the sea before them erupted into magnificent pillars of spray but none of it had any bearing on the Providence – the frigates’ broadsides had fallen a cable’s length short.

Arthur’s heart soared with glee. He had victory by the tail.

“Hands to the braces! Hard-a-port!” He roared and the Providence turned around to bare her teeth. Thirty seven guns were trained on the French crews still scrambling to reload.

Arthur closed his eyes and let the music of the broadside wash over him.

* * *

The next morning they sailed into Portsmouth in a manner most crews could only dream of. The Providence glided into the harbor with two prizes in tow and two escorts leant to them by the Channel Fleet, which they’d run into on their way home. It turned out the two frigates had narrowly escaped the fleet’s claws before falling into Arthur’s hands.

Admiral Howe had been delighted to see Arthur’s little procession and he’d shaken Arthur’s hand with a laugh before dispatching two of his vessels to ensure that the fresh prizes (the cripple having been equipped with jury masts) reached Portsmouth without any trouble. Hence Arthur had had the chance to relax, knowing his rear was secured.

Currently his chest swelled with complacence as he looked upon the four vessels in perfect formation, trailing diligently in the frothing wake of his Providence. He could only imagine what a glorious sight it must have been from the shore.

The Providence was a gorgeous vessel by any standard – a two-decker mounting seventy-four guns and built for speed, she was the finest third rate a captain could ask for. Arthur still remembered the day he’d been given command of her. He’d taken one look at her and fallen in love and even sweeter was the knowledge that the admiralty had high hopes for his career if they were willing to entrust him with such a ship.

That was then. Now there could be no doubt of his worth.

As he set foot on the pier, there was a crowd of civilians waiting to greet the newly arrived crew and they broke out into cheers at the sight of the gold lace on his coat. They followed him all the way to his coach and though he normally scoffed at such simple-minded displays, a small part of him couldn’t help but preen as he settled into the seat.

“Kirkland Hall,” he said to the coachman, “and don’t spare the horses.”

“Not the Admiralty, my lord?” The coachman asked as the last of Arthur’s luggage was loaded.

“No, not this time.”

There was the crack of a whip and the coach sprang to life, groaning and quivering as it turned over the uneven pavement. Arthur adjusted his uniform as he waited for it to gather speed. This time his report would be reaching the admiralty through a different channel - Admiral Howe had left them with a hefty batch of dispatches and Graham was probably on his way to deliver them to Whitehall this very moment, bearing the Providence’s official documents with him as well.

Arthur could afford to postpone his visit for a few days. After all, he’d be there for a different ceremony very soon.

The journey to Kirkland Hall was much as he remembered it – miles of grassland and secluded little groves and farmhouses, slumbering under heavy skies that promised weeks of rain despite it being well into spring. He even managed to catch a few hours of sleep before they reached the less-traveled road to the manor at which point the ride became decidedly more uncomfortable.

The jostling of the carriage was endured in silence as he attempted to calm his nerves. Already some clumps of trees were starting to look so familiar as to trick him into expecting to glimpse the manor around the next bend.

He’d been gone for almost a year. The part of him that had been forged by ruthless military discipline didn’t allow him to succumb to his excitement but another part longed to see the stately old house and its ivy-grown walls. So when it finally came into view it felt like a long awaited sigh of relief.

Arthur let the feeling of homesickness wash over him as drank in the sight - the charcoal shingle roof, the white-painted window frames and the familiar reddish tone of the weathered bricks.

That color had not changed since Arthur’s childhood. What little sun there was to bleach it usually found itself hindered by a wall of oak trees that Arthur’s ancestors had decided to keep despite many a gardener’s complaint that they obscured the house’s façade. Arthur himself a man of the navy would be damned if he allowed those trees to be removed.

It was under their heavy branches that the coach now came to a jerky stop in the middle of the courtyard and Arthur watched through the window as a servant rushed out from the house. Outside it was oddly quiet for such a significant homecoming and it gave him some pause.

Arthur was used to the fanfare and rigid ceremony that greeted him every time he climbed the side of his ship – the bosun's pipes, the side boys neatly lined up and the hundreds of men gathered on the main deck, waiting for the ship to be made whole again by his presence. The manor, on the other hand, still stood strong without him.

He felt the aftertaste of that thought replace some of his good mood.

As he got off the coach to stretch his legs, a few servants were already at work taking away his luggage and he indulged their greetings with a nod. Since his parents’ passing the staff had been treating him with that bashful deference reserved for the master of the house but Arthur found he had little patience for it right now.

With a sigh, he wheeled around and marched back to the coach to fetch his hat. It was time to address why he’d really come back home.

Just as he was reaching inside however, he was hit by an immense force crashing into him that nearly tackled him onto the seats. He barely managed to hide the ‘oof’ that slipped past his lips as his spine ached in protest but any pain or embarrassment was worth it in the face of what came next.

“Father, you’re home!” a familiar voice squealed and Arthur’s face split into a grin. The grip around his middle tightened and he felt a laugh bubble up his throat as he tossed his hat aside and wriggled around to face the other way.

“Now what do we have here, eh?” He smiled down at his assailant. “Attacking an officer of His Majesty’s navy while their back is turned?”

The next moment a pair of sky-blue eyes beamed up at him and he was looking at a gap-toothed smile.

“You left your stern vulnerable,” came the cheeky reply that ended with a giggle.

“Nonsense,” Arthur deadpanned, “the lookout is a merely slob.”

“You always say that!” Alfred protested right before he was scooped up into his father’s arms and twirled around for good measure. His squeal of surprise was music to Arthur’s ears and he hoped none of the servants were spying on them from the windows to see his little unbridled display of affection. He already got enough knowing smiles form the maids.

After some time, he picked up on a different subtle presence hovering behind his back and he turned around to find Matthew waiting his turn quietly. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“And you captain? Why aren’t you attacking?” he said, trying to look stern even though he knew he was smiling. Matthew blinked intelligently up at him before replying:

“You’re flying friendly colors.”

Arthur’s throat clogged with affection and for a moment he thought the last of his facade would slip so he set Alfred down and opened his arms to let Matthew dive in for an embrace, burying his face in his son’s shoulder.

_They’d both grown so much._

Matthew squeezed back with all his might and Arthur reflected on how he was growing up to be quiet but witty, something Arthur had always strived to be but failed on either one front or the other. The fact that Matthew was shaping up to be just that kind of young man filed him with immeasurable pride.

After an embarrassingly long time had passed, he pulled back with a kiss to both boys’ foreheads and got up from where he’d been kneeling in the gravel. A pair of identical stains marred the knees of his breeches but he couldn’t care less about it.

“Well,” he said, edging into a subject that let him regain some of his dignity. “The two Frenchmen your father frog-marched into the harbor today certainly didn’t see friendly colors when they crossed our path.”

At his words, Alfred’s mouth fell open and he gaped at his father.

“You got two more prizes??” He exclaimed, his hands balling into little fists which vibrated with excitement. The last time they’d heard from Arthur was months ago due to the scarce opportunities to send mail out at sea.

“Men of war.” Arthur nodded. “And if you two let me catch my breath inside, I might just tell you about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Arthur’s commentary in the beginning refers to the crippling effect of the French Revolution on the French navy. From the very beginning, the ideas of popular sovereignty created conditions for mutiny and disorganization in the naval service which was considered as one of the most severe and grueling of the time. 
> 
> The killing blow however was inflicted by the mass emigration of experienced naval officers, most of whom were aristocracy. The word émigré in particular is used to refer to all Frenchmen who following the revolution fled France for other countries, including England. 
> 
> 2\. The Providence is a fictional ship invented for the purpose of this story (though a sloop of the same name existed in real life). Her description puts her among the most common type of large ships employed by the Royal Navy at the time. She’s a 74-gun third rate ship of the line with two gun decks and a crew of about 650 men. 
> 
> To give you a better idea, first rates were the most powerful ships mounting the largest amount of guns – at least 100. They were few in number and their armament meant a compromise in speed. These ships were usually employed as flagships and one famous example is the HMS Victory, preserved today as a museum ship. 
> 
> Third rates on the other hand were equipped with 64 to 80 guns and were cheaper to make and much easier to handle, boasting higher speeds and better maneuverability which made them extremely valuable. In fact the numbers speak for themselves: by the time of the Battle of Trafalgar, Britain had 10 first rates, 18 second rates and 147 third rates.
> 
> 3\. “Arthur himself a man of the navy would be damned if he allowed those trees to be removed.” This is a little reference I indulged in without really explaining. It has to do with the trees being oak trees and the connection here is to what is today the official march of the Royal Navy – ‘Heart of Oak’. 
> 
> The lyrics of the march are about the British naval victories of 1759, also known as the ‘Wonderful year’ for being the turning point in the Seven Years’ War which in turn solidified the Royal Navy’s position as the world’s preeminent naval power. The ‘Heart of Oak’ itself is the strongest wood at the center the oak tree - the main type of tree used to make British warships during the age of sail.
> 
> Last but not least, Heart of Oak was the rhythm to which the drums were beaten on a ship of war when one of the most important orders was given - the order to beat to quarters.
> 
> (A detailed glossary of the naval terms used in the chapter can be found on my tumblr blog historihet. )


End file.
